Have you ever thought about what fiction is? Probably, such a question may seem surprising: and so everything is clear. Every person throughout his life has to repeatedly create the works he needs for specific purposes - statements, autobiographies, dictations - using not gypsum or clay, not musical notes, not paints, but just a word. At the same time, almost every person will be very surprised if he is told that he thereby created a work of fiction, which is very different from visual art, music and sculpture making. However, everyone understands that a student's essay or dictation is fundamentally different from novels, short stories, news that are created by professional writers. In the works of professionals there is the most important difference - excogitation. But, oddly enough, in a school literature course, you don’t realize the full power of fiction. So using our website in your free time discover fiction for yourself. The Honor of the Name by Emile Gaboriau (free ebook novel TXT) 📖
- Author: Emile Gaboriau
Book online «The Honor of the Name by Emile Gaboriau (free ebook novel TXT) 📖». Author Emile Gaboriau
And yet, the agony she was enduring did not make her abandon, for a single moment, the plan she had conceived on the day of Martial’s visit.
She played her part so well, that, deeply moved, almost repentant, he returned five or six times, and at last, one day, he besought her to allow him to remain.
But even the joy of this triumph did not restore her peace of mind.
Between her and her husband rose that dread apparition; and Marie-Anne’s distorted features were ever before her. She knew only too well that this heart-broken man had no love to give her, and that she would never have the slightest influence over him. And to crown all, to her already intolerable sufferings was added another, more poignant than all the rest.
Speaking one evening of Marie-Anne’s death, Martial forgot himself, and spoke of his oath of vengeance. He deeply regretted that Chupin was dead, he remarked, for he should have experienced an intense delight in making the wretch who murdered her die a lingering death in the midst of the most frightful tortures.
He spoke with extreme violence and in a voice vibrant with his still powerful passion.
And Blanche, in terror, asked herself what would be her fate if her husband ever discovered that she was the culprit—and he might discover it.
She now began to regret that she had not kept the promise she had made to her victim; and she resolved to commence the search for Marie-Anne’s child.
To do this effectually it was necessary for her to be in a large city—Paris, for example—where she could procure discreet and skilful agents.
It was necessary to persuade Martial to remove to the capital. Aided by the Duc de Sairmeuse, she did not find this a very difficult task; and one morning, Mme. Blanche, with a radiant face, announced to Aunt Medea:
“Aunt, we leave just one week from to-day.”
CHAPTER LI
Beset by a thousand fears and anxieties, Blanche had failed to notice that Aunt Medea was no longer the same.
The change, it is true, had been gradual; it had not struck the servants, but it was none the less positive and real, and it betrayed itself in numberless trifles.
For example, though the poor dependent still retained her humble, resigned manner; she had lost, little by little, the servile fear that had showed itself in her every movement. She no longer trembled when anyone addressed her, and there was occasionally a ring of independence in her voice.
If visitors were present, she no longer kept herself modestly in the background, but drew forward her chair and took part in the conversation. At table, she allowed her preferences and her dislikes to appear. On two or three occasions she had ventured to differ from her niece in opinion, and had even been so bold as to question the propriety of some of her orders.
Once Mme. Blanche, on going out, asked Aunt Medea to accompany her; but the latter declared she had a cold, and remained at home.
And, on the following Sunday, although Blanche did not wish to attend vespers, Aunt Medea declared her intention of going; and as it rained, she requested the coachman to harness the horses to the carriage, which was done.
All this was nothing, in appearance; in reality, it was monstrous, amazing. It was quite plain that the humble relative was becoming bold, even audacious, in her demands.
As this departure, which her niece had just announced so gayly, had never been discussed before her, she was greatly surprised.
“What! you are going away,” she repeated; “you are leaving Courtornieu?”
“And without regret.”
“To go where, pray?”
“To Paris. We shall reside there; that is decided. That is the place for my husband. His name, his fortune, his talents, the favor of the King, assure him a high position there. He will repurchase the Hotel de Sairmeuse, and furnish it magnificently. We shall have a princely establishment.”
All the torments of envy were visible upon Aunt Medea’s countenance.
“‘And what is to become of me?” she asked, in plaintive tones.
“You, aunt! You will remain here; you will be mistress of the chateau. A trustworthy person must remain to watch over my poor father. You will be happy and contented here, I hope.”
But no; Aunt Medea did not seem satisfied.
“I shall never have courage to stay all alone in this great chateau,” she whined.
“You foolish woman! will you not have the servants, the gardeners, and the concierge to protect you?”
“That makes no difference. I am afraid of insane people. When the marquis began to rave and howl this evening, I felt as if I should go mad myself.”
Blanche shrugged her shoulders.
“What do you wish, then?” she asked, in a still more sarcastic manner.
“I thought—I wondered—if you would not take me with you.”
“To Paris! You are crazy, I do believe. What would you do there?”
“Blanche, I entreat you, I beseech you, to do so!”
“Impossible, aunt; impossible!”
Aunt Medea seemed to be in despair.
“And what if I should tell you that I cannot remain here—that I dare not—that I should die!”
A flush of impatience dyed the cheek of Mme. Blanche.
“You weary me beyond endurance,” she said, rudely.
And with a gesture that increased the harshness of her words, she added:
“If Courtornieu displeases you so much, there is nothing to prevent you from seeking a home more to your taste. You are free and of age.”
Aunt Medea turned very pale, and she bit her lips until the blood came.
“That is to say,” she said, at last, “you permit me to take my choice between dying of fear at Courtornieu and ending my days in a hospital. Thanks, my niece, thanks. That is like you. I expected nothing less of you. Thanks!”
She raised her head, and a dangerous light gleamed in her eyes. There was the hiss of a serpent in the voice in which she continued:
“Very well! this decides me. I entreated you, and you brutally refused to heed my prayer, now I command and I say: ‘I will go!’ Yes, I intend to go with you to
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